


Empty Throne

by Mhalachai



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A spy's life, Gen, In from the cold, SHIELD Director Peggy Carter, brief appearance by Nick Fury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years in the Red Room, Natasha Romanova does not trust old women, and she will not trust SHIELD Director Peggy Carter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> For Pentapus - I hope this fits the parts of your prompt that were interested in Natasha Romanoff and Peggy Carter, and rational characters and characters who are complicated and life being complicated and characters who are different at the end of the story and the hopes of a happy future.

* * *

Natasha Romanova lay on the hard cot, arm under her head, watching the sunshine drift through the smudged windowpane.

She'd been stuck in this SHIELD safehouse for over three weeks, ever since SHIELD agent Clint Barton blindsided her in Lyons and gained the upper hand (it was the only thing left to grate on Natasha's nerves, her failure to beat him, her _weakness_ ) and yet he refused to kill her as he had been ordered. In this place, she had been poked and prodded, interrogated and examined. These SHIELD agents, they looked at her like she was nothing, like she was garbage, but even that wasn't enough to touch her now.

(She knew what she was. What she had done.)

(In spite of everything done to her in the Red Room, she had always known.)

So she lay on the flat mattress, and she waited for SHIELD to figure out how to kill her.

(She was still undecided on how to proceed from there. There was nothing left to hold her to the world, but she did not want to die. Maybe that would make it interesting, fighting one last time for her survival.)

(It seemed that was all she had ever done; fight for her survival.)

The only problem with her current plan was that her body had other needs. The faint twist of hunger, the dry throat of thirst, Natasha could withstand and much more. But her bladder was full and her limbs ached with inactivity.

The human body, Natasha decided as she sat up, was very inconvenient.

Holding a loosened metal slat from the cot carefully sharpened to a point during long hours of boredom, Natasha left the second-story bedroom and went down the hall to the bathroom. Nothing appeared to have changed since her last visit to the room, but Natasha had seen too much, done too much, to trust a cursory glance of her surroundings. A target was most vulnerable while in the lavatory. Not that Natasha had any information that SHIELD might come at her in that way, but still she examined the small room closely for bugs or cameras, made sure there was a space under the door and the tiny frosted window was still not airtight (in case of gas attack) and only then unbuttoned her jeans and sat on the toilet.

The metal bar stayed firmly gripped in her hand the whole time.

After washing her hands, Natasha went onto the landing and stopped in her tracks. The house no longer felt empty; somewhere, someone was moving about. In the last eight days, she had not so much as sensed a SHIELD agent in the house; they had been monitoring her from outside.

Natasha breathed out through her nose and relaxed her limbs in anticipation of battle. If this was to be the end, then so be it.

On silent feet, Natasha walked down the stairs.

The movement, Natasha decided after a scan of the empty room at the foot of the stairs, was likely in the kitchen. Natasha hated fighting in a kitchen. Too many sharp objects, bare elements and hot surfaces.

There was no door to the kitchen, only a bend in the wall. Natasha held her makeshift blade behind her, to retain the element of surprise, and eased around the wall.

Of all the things she had expected in a SHIELD safehouse, she certainly had not anticipated this. In the kitchen stood an old woman, pottering around with a plate of cookies. The kettle was rumbling on the counter. Beside the kettle sat a ceramic teapot, which Natasha had not before seen in the safehouse.

She stood still, uncertain, as the old woman finished arranging the cookies to her apparent satisfaction. Then the old woman picked up the plate and carried it over to the table, her gait unsteady. Natasha could see a cane propped up against the table, beside a thick stack of folder and a worn leather purse.

"Are you going to come in?" the old woman asked without looking at Natasha. Her voice was strong, her words accented with British English. "These places are so much more tolerable after a nice cup of tea."

Natasha did not move. SHIELD may have sent this old woman to set Natasha off her guard, but if that was their intention, then they had seriously underestimated Natasha. She was of the Red Room, and she had learned through bloody experience to never trust old women.

"Fetch the cups," the woman went on, shuffling back to the counter. She was even older than Natasha had first assumed. Her hair was white, her face lined. The skin of her hands had the paper-thin texture of the very old. Fragile, she was, and Natasha did not know what had possessed SHIELD to send this old woman alone into the safehouse.

Still holding her knife, Natasha went to the cupboard to retrieve two cups. She set them on the table beside the plate, then stepped back to watch what the old woman would do next.

"Get the milk and sugar," said the old woman as the kettle ceased its boil. Her hands shook only a little as she poured a small amount of hot water into the teapot, then set the kettle down and carried the teapot to the sink to empty it. "Do you take your tea in the old style?"

Natasha remained silent, not knowing what this woman meant by _the old style._ Her silence did not irritate the woman, who only smiled as she carried the teapot back to the counter. She measured in three spoonfuls of black tea into the pot, filled the pot with water, and set in place the little lid.

"I think it best if you carry that to the table, dear," said the old woman, shuffling over to one of the chairs.

Natasha tensed, knowing that if an attack were to come, it would be while her hands were busy with the teapot (a heavy weight, full of a hot liquid, a useful distraction against an assailant), but all the same, she reached for the teapot with her left hand, knife still held at the ready in her right, and carried the heavy container over to the table without spilling a drop.

"Thank you," said the old woman. She settled back in her chair, reaching into her purse. "It needs a few minutes to steep." She withdrew a silver cigarette case and a lighter. "Do you smoke?"

Natasha eased down into the chair. "No," she said curtly, sitting up straight and ready in the event of an attack.

The old woman gave a small nod. "Neither did the others," she said, opening the silver tin and withdrawing one of the hand-rolled cigarettes.

Natasha knew how interrogation methods worked; by saying such an ambiguous thing, the target could either sit there in silence or ask the obvious question. It was the playing of a puppet on a string, and Natasha was tired of it all.

But she was also bored, and thus willing to play this woman's game a little longer.

"What others?"

The woman looked at her with dark eyes. "The other Black Widows."

Natasha froze. "Who are you?"

"Peggy Carter," said the woman, and Natasha felt a frisson of fear spread down her spine and along her limbs. This was Margaret Carter, still Director of SHIELD (although the role these days was largely that of a figurehead, Natasha had heard), one of the agency's founders, a legend in the spy community even after all these years. Young spies were tucked into their beds at night with the warning to _be good, or Peggy Carter will get you._

And here she was, alone in the SHIELD safehouse with Natasha, and Natasha did not know how this would end.

"Now," said the woman (what was Natasha to call her? Director Carter? Peggy? Ma'am?), "Perhaps you might pour the tea."

Natasha stared at the woman (Director Carter, she decided) and said, "Why are you here?"

"For heaven's sake," said Director Carter, "Tea first, then questions. There's no point in talking with a dry mouth."

Natasha set her knife down on the table (what good would it do her now?) and carefully poured the tea. She made no sudden moves towards the Director, for what would SHIELD do to her if Peggy Carter were harmed?

Once the cups were filled, Director Carter reached for the milk and sugar. Natasha sat waiting, her cup untouched, waiting for the axe to fall. For what other reason would the Director of SHIELD be in this safehouse?

Peggy Carter took a sip of her tea, then sat back with a sigh. "You're not chatty," the woman observed. "Then, Russians hardly ever are. Do you know why you're here?"

The simple question sent up a flare of anger in Natasha's chest, blowing past all self-preservation. Here was this woman, who had commanded SHIELD for decades, come to talk to Natasha like she was a schoolgirl in trouble with her teachers? It was that anger that made Natasha bite out, "Of course. Do you?"

She regretted the impulse the moment the words had left her mouth, but Director Carter only looked at her with steady eyes. She put the cigarette to her lips and lit it, smoking for a while in silence. After a few minutes, Natasha could no longer stand the scrutiny. She stood up, paced across the kitchen to the sink. Turning on the tap, she pretended to wait for the water to run cold before reaching for a glass in the drying rack.

Anything was better than sitting still under Peggy Carter's watchful, silent stare.

In the half-minute it took for the water in the old pipes to run cold, Natasha's impulsive actions suddenly seemed childish. She took a deep breath to centre herself. She would not forget her training, she told herself firmly. She would not lose control again.

Taking her glass of water, Natasha returned to the table. The smoke from Director Carter's cigarette, rich floral underlays on the harsher notes (Turkish tobacco, hand rolled, Natasha deduced without conscious thought) filled the room. The cigarette smoke would not mask the smell of any noticeable poison, Natasha decided, and picked up her teacup.

"One of the perils of my job," Director Carter said after a few more silent minutes, "Is that I seldom hear about SHIELD agents until they do something interesting. And last month, Agent Clint Barton did something very interesting indeed."

Natasha remained silent. This was a lecture, not a conversation.

"SHIELD agents in Agent Barton's position are not known to exhibit such independent initiative, especially when it comes to disobeying orders to take down a target such as yourself."

Natasha set her cup firmly on the table, a month of near-solitary confinement grating at her nerves. "One would not normally credit SHIELD agents with any amount of initiative," she said tartly. "It has never been my experience."

Far from the tongue-lashing Natasha expected her outburst to gain her, Peggy Carter's lips curled up into a smile. "If you think SHIELD is bad, you should see the agents the CIA churns out."

"I have," Natasha said, picking up her cup again. Over the previous handful of years, she had gone up against agents from across the world, CIA only one of many agencies. She had prevailed. The Black Widow was, after all, the best.

(She remembered how she had left them all; which had been injured and which killed. She would not lie to herself about what she had done, not here and not now.)

"Agent Barton is an interesting case," Director Carter went on, stubbing out her cigarette. "An... unconventional background. Do you know anything about him?"

All Natasha knew was that Clint Barton had beaten her, and not killed her as ordered. Biting back the lingering irritation, Natasha said, "I did not have the opportunity to investigate Agent Barton before we met."

(The first Natasha knew of Agent Clint Barton when was the man was nearly on top of her, his sandy hair and irritating face and strong hands and his infuriating smile. How he had tracked her across half of France without her spotting him, Natasha could not fathom.)

Director Carter leaned forward in her chair to put her hand on the large folder, pushing it forward half an inch. "Would you care to examine his file?"

Natasha went still. This was a trap, it had to be. Why would SHIELD offer up one of its agent's files to Natasha, after a month alone in this safehouse? Would they expect her to take the information and go after Barton? Would it contain inaccurate information that would betray Natasha to her death?

While Natasha tried desperately to _think_ , Peggy Carter reached for the teapot. This time, when she poured out the tea, her hands did not shake. "I asked Agent Barton if I could show you his file," the woman said, setting the teapot down. "That is not his entire file. But enough."

It had to be a trap, but Natasha could not see how it would be done. Carefully, she reached out to take the file. The file was not thick and when Natasha pulled it from the stack, she caught sight of the Russian words on the folder lying beneath Barton's file.

**_CLASSIFIED: BLACK WIDOW PROGRAM_ **

The world went curiously soft and muted for a moment. Then sound rushed back in as Natasha stared at the thick folder sitting innocently on the safehouse's kitchen table.

Peggy Carter let out a breath, the softest of sighs in the silent room. "Perhaps you would want to read Agent Barton's file later," the woman said, and took the SHIELD folder from Natasha's limp grasp. "What do you know about the Black Widow program?"

Natasha tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry she choked on the air. Picking up her cup, she gulped at the now-tepid liquid. "I know what was told to me," Natasha said, setting the cup down with a clatter. "The Black Widow program, it exists no longer."

The English she had learned in her youth was mixing up in her head, tumbling around with the Russian words of her infancy.

"We know that the Black Widow program supposedly did not last long beyond the fall of the Soviet Union," Director Carter said. She pushed the folder, unopened, toward Natasha. "Standard SHIELD operating procedure was to treat anyone who came out of the Black Widow training program as non-redeemable."

So, this was to be it then, Natasha thought, a chill reaching her heart. In their world, 'non-redeemable' came with a short life expectancy.

Still, Natasha reasoned, what could she expect? She knew what she had done in her years; how many lives her actions had destroyed. She had been very good at her job, her skill-set sharpened and honed through her years on her own.

But in spite of all that, she was Natasha Romanova, and she would not quietly lay down to die. She pulled her thoughts back from the turmoil and looked Director Carter in the eye. "Are these the things that you know?"

Director Carter closed her cigarette case. "Do you wish to know what I know?" She put the case away in her purse. "I know I have been dogged by agents out of the Black Widow program for over fifty years. I know that the intelligence files out of SHIELD and every other agency around the world have five different answers to every question I had about you." The woman (how old had she been when she started in this life?) picked up her tea again. "I know that one of SHIELD's agents went so far sideways on a routine mission that it came all the way up to me, and I know that he thinks you could be a valuable asset to SHIELD." The woman shook her head. "There is just one thing I do not know."

Natasha kept still, hardly breathing.

Director Carter moved the last folder across the table. Natasha opened the folder to show a photograph of her own face, so very long before. The girl in the photograph still had the round cheeks of childhood, but her eyes held no life, no hope.

There were other photographs, tucked into the folder, showing hints of Natasha's past - the summers in Siberia, the knives, the body of the first man killed.

But Natasha could hardly look away from the photograph of her face.

Peggy Carter reached across the table and laid a fragile hand on Natasha's wrist; Natasha was too caught up in her past to pull away.

"How old are you?"

Blinking, Natasha made herself look up at Director Carter. There was no sense in lying about it; if they had her file, this file, they'd be able to track back through the bloodbath of her youth to pinpoint at least the year of her birth. Anything clearer than that, she'd never been able to find herself. Natasha swallowed. "Eighteen. I am eighteen years old."

Director Carter patted Natasha's wrist, then withdrew.

The lack of reaction suddenly made Natasha angry. "You think that I am too young for this life?" she flared.

"Not at all." Director Carter poured herself another cup of tea. "I have known a lot of young soldiers in my time. Scared to death like the rest of us, but clever and resourceful. And usually dead young, rest their souls."

"Do you think you know what I have done?" Natasha pressed on, glaring at Director Carter.

"I know more than perhaps you think," Director Carter said calmly. "I know about the hospital fire." Natasha flinched; she still heard those screams in the half-waking of early morning. "About what happened in São Paulo, in Pinerolo, in Badajoz." Director Carter set down her cup and stood, hands braced on the table. "Now you need to figure out what you want."

"What options could I have?" Natasha demanded. "You will never let me go."

Director Carter slung her purse over her arm before reaching for her cane. "There are two ways you can leave this house," she said as she moved toward the door. "One way is to come see me in my office in a week."

"What's the other way?" Natasha asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Director Carter paused at the back door. "Read those files," she instructed. "One week."

And with that, she went out the back door and was gone.

Natasha sat for a long moment, then quickly bundled the folders, her makeshift knife, and the untouched plate of cookies up the stairs. She closed the door to the bedroom and pushed the iron bedframe in front of the door. She had some reading to do. And then… she would need to decide on her next step. Two ways out of this house – the proffered trip to Director Carter's office in one week, or a quick bullet to the back of the head.

The choice, was more than Natasha had expected to be given.

Well, she was not one to pass up an opportunity. Putting a cookie in her mouth, Natasha opened Clint Barton's file. She had work to do, and a choice to make.

* * *

_One week later_

Natasha waited until she was led into Director Carter's office in the Triskelion in Washington (really, a building this large and open was just asking for an attack) and the door to shut before she said, "You have a leak in your organization."

Director Carter didn't react, just came around the edge of her desk. "Is that so?" she said mildly.

"Some of the information in Agent Barton's file," Natasha pressed on. "It's been in the wind for months, maybe not connected to him yet, but parts of that file you showed me, are for sale in Europe."

Director Carter sat on a couch facing the large windows. "And you could have taken the rest of the file and run with it," the woman said, raising her eyebrows at Natasha. "Since the agent involved was the one who brought you in."

Natasha stared at Director Carter. "Was this all a test?" she demanded, anger stirring in her chest. "You gave me these files to see if I'd run?"

"I gave you the files to see what you would do with the information," Director Carter corrected. "Most agents in your situation, especially cooped up alone for a month, would have taken those files and run as fast as they could, especially considering what Agent Barton's head would be worth."

Natasha sat down with less grace than speed. "You thought I'd sell Agent Barton to the highest bidder?"

"If you didn't go after him yourself." Director Carter's eyes no longer held any of the calm softness they had in the safehouse, and Natasha was forcibly reminded that, while over eighty, Peggy Carter was still one of the most powerful women in the world. "Instead, you're here. Why?"

Natasha pressed her hands against her legs, keeping her breath even, her body loose, just as she had been trained. A body on edge was prone to snap. "Is that not one more thing that you know?"

Director Carter just stared at Natasha as another door across the room opened, and in walked a tall black man, an eyepatch over one eye. Natasha was on her feet in an instant, because who else could this be but Nick Fury?

The man sauntered across the room, looking down at Natasha. "You know," he said without preamble, "With everything I heard, I always thought you'd be taller."

Natasha held herself still, back straight, eyes on the man. "Being taller is the easy part," she retorted.

The man gave a dip of the head as he ambled over to the couch, sitting beside Director Carter. Unlike the woman's poise, Nick Fury slumped down into the cushions, one long leg outstretched.

"Deputy Director Nick Fury, this is Natasha Romanova," said the old woman.

"I've heard a lot about you," Fury said, never taking his eye off Natasha. "Scuttlebutt around here says you're looking for redemption."

Natasha breathed in. "Anyone looking for redemption is someone with a sloppy exit strategy," she said. "And sometimes they're not too picky about the collateral damage."

Fury's eyebrow rose. "I've heard about your version of 'collateral damage'."

"The hospital fire was six years ago," Director Carter said in an off-hand way.

"Yes," Fury said. "Yes, it was." He was still staring at Natasha and she did not know what she was to do next.

Director Carter sat forward. "If I told you that the individual who leaked Agent Barton's file has been taken care of, what would you do next?"

"I wouldn't believe you," Natasha said, switching her attention to the old woman in the expensive business suit. "An organization the size of SHIELD, and you think a leak is ever stopped at just one man?"

Fury and Director Carter exchanged a glance. "She has more experience than agents twenty years her senior," Director Carter said, sounding like she was picking up a half-started conversation. "It's your call."

Fury looked out the window. "You're right about there being a storm coming," he said after a minute, and pushed himself to his feet. "Tomorrow morning, oh-six-hundred," he said to Natasha, fixed her with a glare, then left through the same door he'd entered.

Somewhat at sea, Natasha looked to Director Carter. The woman shook her head. "We recruit the best and the brightest, put them through our training academies, and only a handful of them even come close to what we need them to be," she mused.

Natasha balled up her hand into a fist and forced herself to keep still.

"The world has been too quiet since the end of the Cold War," Director Carter said, almost to herself. "Trouble is coming, and there are too many old people who cling to things the way they once were."

"You're old," Natasha said, feeling this was not an observation that Director Carter would have failed to make herself. "You've been part of SHIELD since the beginning, you have to be at least eighty."

"Eighty," Director Carter repeated in amusement. "Child, you know damned well how old I am."

"What did Fury mean about a storm?" Natasha asked, deflecting to a new subject. "What happens tomorrow?"

Director Carter stood, gesturing Natasha over to her side. Warily, Natasha let the old woman take her arm and guide her over to the windows. "If you don't vanish in the night," Director Carter said, staring out at the city below, "Tomorrow you start your new job with SHIELD."

Natasha opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I have hundreds of active agents and hundreds more in the academies. Most will be good at what they do, but none of them come close to your level." Director Carter let out a sigh. Her hand was like a bird on Natasha's arm, fragile and light. "I'm not offering you redemption. I'm offering you a chance to do good."

"Who decides what is the good?"

"An excellent question." Director Carter stood staring out the window for a long minute. "What is that saying you Russians had? Never trust a king who sleeps easy in his bed?"

"I've never heard anyone say that."

"It doesn't matter." Director Carter took her hand from Natasha's arm. "If you make the choice to join SHIELD, Nick has offered to oversee your training."

"Why?"

"Because Nick knows the king will not die quietly in his sleep." Director Carter walked slowly back over to her desk. "And I, for one, agree with him."

Natasha stayed by the window. "What if I decide against joining SHIELD?"

"You won't." Reaching her desk, Director Carter sat down in the large chair. "You made your choice when you came in here this morning." One of the woman's eyebrows went up. "And if you'd planned to kill me this morning, we would not have gotten this far." She picked up a pen to sign a piece of paper on her desk. "Take this to level three and see Agent Phil Coulson."

Natasha crossed the room to take the paper from the woman, a little dazed. She had not been expecting an offer to join SHIELD; this all felt like a strange dream. Perhaps, if it was not a trick, she would still be able to run after she figured out what would happen next. When there was life, there was a chance.

"Do you want me to thank you?" Natasha asked as she glanced over the paper. Requisition orders. Clothes, sleeping quarters. A new start.

"I don't want your gratitude," Director Carter said. "I want your honesty."

Natasha had no idea how to respond to this, so she turned to go. Just as she got to the room's main door, Director Carter's voice stopped her.

"One last thing, Miss Romanova." Natasha turned her head. "If you betray SHIELD, next time Agent Barton will not be the one sent after you."

Natasha held the woman's steely gaze for a heartbeat. "I understand." And she did.

Director Carter wasn't offering her this role from any place of misguided compassion. What the woman had said, had danced around, was that she knew there were things coming that her Academy-trained SHIELD agents would not be able to handle. But someone like Natasha, the last in a long line of Black Widow agents, someone like Agent Clint Barton and his childhood scrabbling for survival in the back tents of a middle-America carnival; they had the skills, they knew the world as it really was, not the slick veneer of the city streets and the SHIELD recruitment brochures.

So be it. At least if she was on the inside, she might be able to see where the storm would strike first.

As Natasha reached for the door's handle, Director Carter leaned back in her chair. The last sight Natasha had of the room was the chair turning to the window, and the curious illusion of an empty throne in an empty room.

Natasha turned, and walked into the light.

* * *

Director Peggy Carter retired from SHIELD two weeks later.

Natasha did not see her again.

_~~end_


End file.
